167. I’ve been dying for weeks – dying from the inside. You see, I’m a firm believer in the validity and living power of the Great Book, but I’ve been neglecting it. Since being home from the Race, my life has been so hard to hold onto in my little hands. If you’ve read anything in this great place, you know I’ve moved twice, bought a car, and started a new job in the three short months I’ve been home. It’s been no secret how hard it’s been to readjust to this new home life I’m living. One of those adjustments has been reading the Word. I know I’m “supposed to” but I’ve never been one to do things simply out of obligation. I’m one who oftentimes allows passions and desires to take the front seat, which can end in disaster.
This is one of those disaster moments, the kind like pulling all the books off the bookshelf when I was a kid in rebellion only to find mom picking them up one by one and taking them out the door to someone who would appreciate them more (okay, I think she really put them in storage for a minute, but I digress).
I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve picked up my Bible since being home – the one with the highlighted pages, countless notes in the margins, and duct taped binding. That one. The one I love so much. The one that, for two years, I’ve been fearful of not having right by my side.
It’s true, what they say, that God doesn’t move. We do. And I’ve been moving – practically running in the opposite direction. I talk a good talk and walk a pretty good walk, but deep down I’m dry bones in the desert and God keeps asking, “Can these bones live?” and I’ve tried it all – Bible studies, friendships, dinner here, bruncheon there, and guidance from contemporaries. None of it works, really. None of it, you know.
So today, I’m thankful that the Word is alive. No matter how long I stay away or how far I go, when I open it, it is always good. God’s word never returns void, and that includes just opening it and reading it. I’m so thankful that God is faithful and His word is alive.